Ampersand
by quietcharm
Summary: And if Cedric Diggory hadn't died, what would have happened next? First love, hard love, and a big question.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Ampersand

Author: Saffron

Disclaimer: JK Rowling created them, I'm only putting in more shadows and light.

For Teija, just because

"...the chorus is whispering all about us, all about us" - Trembling Blue Stars

_And if Cedric hadn't died, what would have happened next?_

He comes up to you after a particularly grueling Potions lecture, his hand a sudden anchor against your elbow. "Could I talk to you for a minute, Cho?" After a second of wondering what Cedric Diggory would want to talk about, you nod and lead him off to a nearby bench.

You congratulate him on being chosen as the Hogwarts Champion. He shrugs and says, "One of them, yeah," and looks uneasy. Without really thinking about it, you take one of his hands in your own, and pat it. "It was a mistake, that's all. Harry looked as startled as anyone."

He surprises you by covering your hands and tugging you closer. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." You look at him and he's smiling, a tentative question on his lips.

"Would you do me the honour of going to the Yule Ball with me?"

This is how it begins.

Cedric is the first boy you really like, the first one you allow to kiss you on the mouth. Other boys have tried, have written awkward lines about your hair, your almond shaped eyes. Wooing with crumpled valentines and half-eaten chocolates, presents of sticky purple bottles full of suspicious scent. Cedric takes you in like a sunrise, every day a different glance. He does not ask permission, only leans against your shoulder in passing, touches your hair. A small smile, and then, "Hello."

It is a trifle, a friendly greeting, but you shiver anyway.

Naturally, you talk about Quidditch, carefully omitting Ravenclaw tactics from the conversation. Cedric's favourite team is the Devonshire Dervishes, and he smirks when you say you support the Tutshill Tornadoes. He cocks his head, grins that smile you've seen devastate other girls, the one that demands you adore him. You avert your eyes and say, "Six. I've supported them since I was six."

Cedric repeats "Six, six, six," until you're blushing. His hand curls over your own, and he traces the veins in your wrist.

The fifth conversation you have is about trees. As a Hufflepuff, Cedric's supposed to commune with nature, bask in the light, the dirt soft and floury on his fingertips. He tells you a secret – for a month, he killed a flower a day. Replanted them incorrectly, exposed their roots, forgot to water them, left them out too long in the sun - and the flowers knew. They withered as soon as he approached them with his trowel. Madame Sprout assigned him to kill weeds after that. Flowers are delicate tricky things, you assure him. He looks up at the leafy canopy above you, and says, "I prefer trees." It occurs to you that trees are just flowers with armor and a better sense of direction.

You start meeting in other places besides the pitch: the bench outside the farthest greenhouse, beside the statue of Griselda the Gentle in the courtyard, the stairwell between Transfiguration and Ancient Runes. Out in the daylight, where everyone can see you. He carries your books, and asks how your day went. You tell him everything: how the mole on Flitwick's ear looks like a cloud, and you accidentally turned Marietta's nose blue because you were distracted by said mole, and now she's not speaking to you. He listens, as if the ordinary notes of your life sound like the greatest symphony. You touch his cuff, smile.

At lunch, you trade seats with Terry so you have a better view of the Hufflepuff table. Cedric sees you, lifts up his glass, and winks.

Pretend not to hear your friends' knowing laughter. You cut into your pear slowly and deliberately, the gold peel and the white flesh sinking underneath your knife and fork. You pick up a slice with your fingers, and bite into it. Lick your lips. You know he's staring, turn away and ask Amelia for her napkin. Laugh a bit when she leans over and whispers, "You little tart."

When Cedric kisses you, it surprises you how hot his mouth feels against your lips. How light his touch is, roaming over your cheeks and earlobes. You taste like pear and spices, he says, and traces the shape of your mouth with his thumb.

Underneath the awning, Cedric looks pale and tired, his skin a patchwork of angry red burns and pink braised skin. You bite your lip to keep from crying, and ask Madame Pomfrey if she needs any help. She hands over the pot of viscous orange salve, and you tenderly apply it to his face and neck. Cedric blinks at you and starts to chuckle. When you ask him what's so funny, he says that you're his kind of Chinese Fireball. You swat him on the head _gently_ for that remark, but smile anyway.

Later, you think dragons would be preferable to the way Harry Potter is looking at you, dejection and pleading in his gaze. His eyes are colored like the glass you used to find when you were little, and on beach holidays with your family. You think maybe another time, another place, if Cedric hadn't looked at you first, but it doesn't matter. You are sorry that Harry's hurt, but Cedric is the one you made your promise to.


	2. Chapter 2

The Yule Ball is a month away and you confess that you don't know how to dance. You are in the library when you say this, and he is looking over Potions notes while you correct his Arithmancy equations. He looks up, eyebrows perfect arches of surprise, a smudge of ink on his cheekbone. "I thought you Ravenclaws knew everything."

Retort: "Well, do you know how to dance?"

He grins, and suggests that you two learn together.

After a highly embarrassing discussion with Madame Pince, who treats you as if you have asked for the keys to the Restricted Section instead of mere dance guides, you scurry back to Cedric, the leather bound tome with its rustling parchment pages a comforting weight in your arms.

The book smells like sawdust and varnish, and dust emanates from the pages as Cedric turns them. You accidentally inhale, and spend the next few moments, coughing and spluttering. He offers you his handkerchief, slightly worn, his initials stitched in the corner.

You pore over the instructions together, reading silently the names of steps, the dances themselves: _allemande, baion, ballo, the can can_. His fingertip skips over to "waltz," and his breath tickles your ear when he says, "That's the one."

Before you leave the library, you remember his handkerchief and try to return it. He waves it away and tells you to keep it.

For the next two weeks, you meet in a clearing by the Forbidden Forest, and you dance. Or try to, anyway. It becomes apparent that the height difference you first found attractive is exhausting when you're constantly craning your neck to look at him. Then there is the matter of who gets to lead – as both of you are Seekers, prone to making the first move, there's a bit of a struggle.

Cedric only wins because you let him.

He strings your arm out as if he's a violinist and you are his bow. One, two, three...one two three, he counts, and your free hand instinctively curls over his shoulder as he slowly guides you.

One two three...one two three, and you're counting sheep in sets of threes, skipping the third step on the stairs to Charms, and your walk is different. You glide now, and every limb seems elongated, smoother.

Cedric is affected as well, and it shows in his improved posture and stride. Every movement is careful, a bow there, a curtsy here. Navigating the crowded halls of Hogwarts becomes a choreographed game as you two avoid pillars, rushed first years, and Peeves, all the while holding onto the other.

Both of you see Harry at the same time, his rucksack slung over one shoulder, a frown on his face. Cedric squeezes your hand, says quietly, "It'll be okay," as you try not to blush. He waves at Harry, but the other boy ignores him and you, and walks away.

Cedric says it first: "Well, that was nice and awkward."

You feel unsettled and angry that a dismissive glance from the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Get-Over-It makes you feel guilty. Were you too friendly before, was there something in your eyes that you didn't mean to convey?

Exhale. Remember the other boy at your side, the one who makes you laugh, who smooths your hair and kisses your forehead before he walks you back to Ravenclaw tower, your _boyfriend_. You turn to Cedric and say, "It doesn't matter, does it?" He leans in and kisses you on the cheek, says "No, it really doesn't."

The day before the Yule Ball, you find yourself trapped in a horde of excited girls headed for Gladrags Wizard Wear in Hogsmeade. Amelia drags you and Marietta dress robe shopping, as she decides at the last minute that her crimson and silver frock is "utterly Renaissance rubbish," and that she needs another outfit. Marietta spots Padma Patil leaving Gladrags and tears off, leaving you as Amelia's reluctant fashion assistant.

In the changing room, you try not to fidget as Amelia parades in and out, garbed in dress robe upon dress robe, each one more outlandish than the last. A definite no on the robe where the sleeves are longer than the rest of outfit, a maybe on the iridescent shell, and you nix a grey dress robe topped with an enormous ruffled collar. The saleswitch comes in and gives you both a nasty glare before sniffing, "_Teenagers_,"and levitates the pile of discarded robes outside. You take it as your cue to pull a protesting Amelia out of the changing room. "She'll take the lilac-gold one, please," you tell another saleswitch. Within moments, it is wrapped, packaged, and Amelia hands over forty galleons, a steal from its original eighty galleon price.

She sulks all the way to Madame Rosmerta's, until you buy a round of Butterbeers. Golden, sparkling and sweet, the drinks restore her spirits as well as yours.

On the way back to Hogwarts, Amelia asks what you're wearing. You twirl your scarf, and mutter evasively, "Oh, dress robes." You haven't told anyone what they look like, not even Cedric. Not that he's given up – you've received three owls already, each one hooting over the others to be heard first. Each note is the same: "Cho, what are you wearing?"

Almost as if you had summoned him, Cedric is waiting by the Ravenclaw Knight when you and Amelia make your way back. The Knight creakily extends a gauntlet in greeting as Amelia, giggling as she did so, says the password: "Bivouac!" The passageway slides open.

Just as she enters the common room, Amelia pauses over the threshold and saucily says, "Try and get her back in at a decent hour, won't you, Cedric?"

You make a mental note to transfigure Amelia's socks into paper weights.


End file.
